


stern and wild ones

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Series: by the inscrutable decree of Providence [6]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Misses, Beholding Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, But it never ends, Hurt/Comfort, Kidfic- But Make it Eldritch, Lonely Avatar Martin Blackwood, M/M, No beta we kayak like Tim, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, avatars gonna avatar, elias shoots his shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27751561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: Shame, Despair, Solitude! These had been her teachers,— stern and wild ones,— and they had made her strong, but taught her much amiss.- "The Scarlet Letter"In which the apocalypse does not happen.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: by the inscrutable decree of Providence [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973212
Comments: 14
Kudos: 91





	stern and wild ones

**Author's Note:**

> _Disclaimer:_ I somehow own even less than usual. 
> 
> _Author’s Note:_ “This AU is a happy place,” I say to myself, writing angst. 
> 
> _Warnings:_ Further exploration into an idea proposed in “overflow upon the outward world” vignette 10 (“Feeding”), as well as a sort of pseudo-sequel to vignette 22 (“Visit”). References to other stories in this series. Hurt/comfort. Chunks ~~blatantly stolen~~ lovingly borrowed from episodes proper. No beta, crap edits. 
> 
> Title taken from The Scarlet Letter: “Shame, Despair, Solitude! These had been her teachers,— stern and wild ones,— and they had made her strong, but taught her much amiss.”

\---

stern and wild ones

\---

There are few explicit advantages to caring for a partly eldritch newborn, but if Martin were to write a list— or, perhaps, to start a poem, one which may or may not be shyly tucked into the center of his journal— feeding would be ranked quite highly.

“My turn,” Martin whispers to his fiancé, kissing Jon firmly on the brow when Jon begins to lift his head. It does not take much pressure to push Jon’s face back into his pillow. Neither Martin nor Jon had been particularly good sleepers prior to pledging themselves to their Patrons, and in a general sense they have not improved; however, enduring the miracle of birth last week had given Jon’s restless, fear-riddled mind less say than usual in how and when his body worked. Or did _not_ work, as the case may be. 

“ _Mmghph_ ,” Jon says eloquently. He is already half-way back to unconsciousness. It’s impressive, almost— a power in itself— given how noisy Pearl’s whimpers are growing. “’Member we’ve g’t… new… fr‘m ‘sira…” 

“Stashed in baby’s room,” Martin tells him softly, if a bit pointlessly. Bless Jon’s heart, he’s completely gone. Likely off to wander the nightmares of the couple that they’d had for breakfast two weeks ago. 

_Nice girls_ , Martin remembers, pulling on a pair of woolen socks before rolling out of bed. _I hope they’re doing all right._

Apart from, well. The obvious.

-

They had tried, those very first nights, to keep Pearl in a bassinet at the foot of their bed.

It was a decision inspired more by emotion than logic. Pearl’s nursery— a quaint new attachment built into the side of the safehouse— was made of all the best things that Lukas money could buy, brightly colored and fully furnished. And Watched as Pearl would be by two parents touched by an evil god of perception, it seemed unlikely that anything bad would happen to her outside of their purview. 

But when it finally came time to put her down for the night, some obstinate, irrational, and _loud_ part of Jon woke up— ironically—, and in no uncertain terms made it clear that this _was not going to happen._ Would not so much as entertain the notion of actually _using_ the nursery. 

Privately, Martin assumed that Jon was struggling to see the baby as someone who now existed outside of himself, and for that he couldn’t blame him. So Martin did not push. 

Not until the third day, anyway. At which point, their daughter’s ceaseless wailing had made Jon far more amenable to the idea of sequestering her in a different room. Or, at least, more willing to test Martin’s pet theory about a child of the Lonely needing a bit of time to herself each day. 

Lo and behold, the crying became contended coos the instant her parents left the sunshine-yellow nursery. 

“Well. That’s… a bit heartbreaking, actually,” Jon had said, eyes glassy, as he watched their newborn doze from the other side of the jamb. “She’s only 96 hours, 13 minutes, and 48 seconds old, Martin… How can she not need us anymore…?!” 

_Hormones, etc._ They, like so many things, tend to get worse before they get better. Trying very hard to remain the rational one in this relationship, Martin had hugged his devastated fiancé and explained, “Jon, love, she needs us. Don’t Look at me like that, she does. She’s just. You know. Also a pureblooded introvert.” Quite literally, given her genetics. “An hour or two of alone time is healthy. Right? Oh, c’mon, you know that’s right. So by my calculations, if we leave her to her own devices during naps and after bedtime, we can probably spend the rest of the day with her— no tears, no fuss, no problem.” 

Jon’s nose had scrunched adorably at this suggestion. “You mean… leave her alone when she’s asleep and… and just spend time with her when she’s awake?”

“Basically, yeah.” 

“So… essentially… treat her like… like a normal human baby?” 

“Uh.” Frowning, Martin paused to mentally recount the entirety of their brief conversation. “Well, I— er. Yes? Yes, I suppose so.” 

Funny. For the myriad of things that he and Jon had considered, worried about, and planned for while preparing for Pearl’s arrival, neither had given much thought to the idea of treating her like a _normal human baby_. Not really. The concept felt, at once, deeply disturbing and oddly anticlimactic. 

In any event, that night had seen the bassinet go into storage, and Pearl into the nursery. Everyone in the little family has been much happier in the days since.

-

“Hi, baby,” Martin whispers, sing-song and sweet, as he tiptoes into Pearl’s wee room. There is no real need to be quiet, of course— Pearl is already awake, and nothing outside of Armageddon would be waking Jon— but something about the lamp’s soft glow and the dark’s softer shadows encourages the use of his softest voice. “Are you a hungry girly, Pearly?”

Pearl, with her shock of white hair and iridescent corona of eyes, Gazes up at Martin from the confines of her crib, wriggling in that way that reminds him of _The Very Hungry Caterpillar._

Impossibly, he finds himself loving his daughter even more. 

“Oh, man. The impudence, am I right, Poddy?” Martin nods, sympathetic, while hoisting the swaddled newborn from her cozy little bed. “The _sheer audacity_ of your tummy, letting itself get so empty. So rude. So rude!” he emphasizes, idly rocking Pearl as he meanders to the bookshelf. Atop it, sandwiched between a pair of enucleated highland cow stuffies, are four standing files, labeled in cheery bubble letters: _Neither, Jon, Martin,_ and _Both_. 

It is another advantage, if only on paper. (No pun intended.) Either way, in a practical sense— or a “food conservation” sense— it _is_ a pretty helpful trick to be able to recycle sustenance. A tale written once is a tale told indefinitely; the Eye does not care how often It hears it, so long as the person reading it is experiencing the horrors contained for the first time. Which means, Jon and Martin quickly realized, that they can double-dip on the Statements they feed to Pearl, provided that the other isn’t within earshot when reading aloud.

Martin hesitates to use the expression “blessing in disguise.” Even so, it _is_ convenient. Pearl may not need to feed quite as often as a purely human child, but she absolutely requires more nourishment than Jon. 

Or Martin, for that matter. 

(He forgets, sometimes. Then he sees his hair, or feels the chill, or otherwise _remembers_ , and marvels that it does not hurt.) 

“Shall we read something fresh, sweetheart? Your Auntie Basira brought over some brand-new Statements today,” Martin commentates, rifling through the _Neither_ file with the hand that is not holding his daughter. Curled close to his chest, Pearl gurgles; Martin chooses to interpret this as encouragement. “Yes, that’s right, you remember— the lady that you met today! The one who… er. She didn’t really stay long. Honestly, she’s a bit… hm. Well. I don’t think your Daddy would entirely approve of the language I’m tempted to use, even _if_ I use proper, non-baby-talk grammar. In any case, I’m sure she’ll want to be your aunt. Once she’s, uh. Wrapped her head around you. You just… surprised her. But in fairness, you surprised us too, didn’t you? That’s what you are, Pearl— Daddy and Papa’s happy surprise!” Martin rambles, careful to keep his tone sunny. Tone is the only part of this she understands, after all. Presumably. “Now, then. Tell me ‘when,’ okay, honey?” 

Pearl squeaks a second later, her ethereal eyes bobbling. Martin plucks free the paper on which his fingers had landed. 

“An excellent choice,” he commends, doing his best bad-waiter impression. The joke goes unacknowledged, unfortunately, because a) Martin is a comedic genius who is largely unappreciated in his time, and b) Pearl is starting to get impatient, sensing satiation is nearly at hand. 

Martin chuckles, reminded of Jon at his pettiest and poutiest, and smiles as he settles into the armchair on which Ensign is keeping vigil. Pulling up his sleepshirt, he lectures, “Now, now. Don’t be like that, Pearly. Just be glad I’m the easier parent to latch onto.” 

Baby does not contest this. Probably because she has already, eagerly latched. With the sort of focus that can only be afforded by commanding a dozen eyes, Pearl turns her resplendent Stare upon her Papa, squirming against his chest with a dry, needy suckle. It is pathetic and endearing in equal measure, a plea for him to help her. To feed her. To _read._

Something hidden beneath the blankets in her crib clicks on. And Martin, helpless in the face of love and devotion and other, equally terrible forces, holds aloft a thin packet of paper and proceeds:

“ _Martin Blackwood, fiancé to Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Recording statement number 9920908. Statement of Hazel Rutter, given August 9th, 1992. Statement begins:_

 _Hello, Jon._ ”

-

Martin reads the Statement.

Martin recites the Incantation.

Martin braces for the worst. 

But Martin is not Jon. He has been touched, yes, and scarred, yes, and hurt, yes, but not nearly so intimately, so irrevocably, nor so many times as his fiancé. Martin is an archivist, but only in lower case letters. He is an assistant to the Archive, not the Archive itself.

The world does not end.

-

“Couldn’t sleep…?”

There is something akin to déjà vu in this moment. Martin, tensed, hunching beside the fire. His fiancé shuffling in on stocking feet. Jon is again draped in one of their blankets— wears it with the slouched regality of a king in a cape— and shares it just as magnanimously after settling next to Martin. Any other night, it might have been the start of something sweet. 

But tonight, there are tear tracks streaking Martin’s face, raw and red and recent, and the second Jon notices them the mood irreparably shifts. 

“Martin—?” Alarm and adrenaline drive the vestiges of exhaustion from Jon’s voice. On instinct, he reaches out to clasp Martin’s hand in his own, and visibly panics upon realizing that its tremble is too fine to be from the chill. “Good Lord, Martin, what’s the matter? Has— has something happened? What’s wrong?” A thought drains the color from Jon’s face; his head whips towards the nursery’s door. “Where’s—!?”

“Pearl’s fine,” Martin rasps. Laughs, then— a sound as hollow as the stare he keeps directed at the fire. “F-fed. Really… r-really well fed, ha. In her bed. I… I even… I even m-managed to burp her. To. To tuck her back in. B-before I… b-before I s-started t—”

The tears return in a tidal surge of misery and horror, rivulets leaching in icy, glittering streams down Martin’s cheeks. Jon reaches out, trying to stem their flow, but the gentleness in his touch only turns Martin’s sobs ragged; the kiss that Jon presses to the corner of his mouth no doubt tastes of salt, and madly, Martin wants to apologize for it. Apologize for _everything_. 

_Nothing happened_ , and yet—

And yet… 

“Oh, love,” Jon whispers, so tender, so concerned. He is as close to Martin as he can be without crawling into his lap, and Martin can feel his body curling inward to wrap around his fiancé’s warmth. “Do you… do you need me to Compel you? Would that help?” 

They are, by now, so tangled in each other, that Martin ruins Jon’s braid when he shakes his head. It is not enough to shake the words that still linger in his own: 

_You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right…_

“No,” Martin chokes, eyes squeezed shut. Jon squeezed nearer. He tries and fails to be wary of missing ribs, of cramping belly. “N-no, best not. Just… just in c-case.” 

“In case of what?” The disgruntled _mrrrp_ that Martin’s embrace pulls from Jon would put Ensign to shame. Which, fair. Still, Jon’s hands are soothing when he runs them through Martin’s curls. They are probably _all_ bleached white, now. “I— I mean. I mean, of course, there’s no pressure. There’s never any— It wasn’t my intention to imply… You needn’t tell me anything you don’t want to, Martin, but—”

“I’ll tell you,” Martin wheezes, promises, wet face burrowed in Jon’s nape. Jon has started his heartbeat again, and Martin Knows he has done so for him. To give him something to which to pace his breathing. He inhales, exhales. Admits, “I… I _have_ to tell you, you— you need to know. We’re gonna… we’re going to need to do something about it… But. I just— I just need… five minutes. For five minutes, can I… can we… Please?”

Martin peels away enough to look up at Jon: to beg with wide, damp eyes and parted, quivering lips. 

Jon wastes no time before pulling Martin back to his chest. Wraps his arms safe, and tight, and protectively around him. 

“Whatever you need,” he murmurs, rocking Martin as he cries.

-

They are still sitting before the hearth when dawn first creeps in through the window, making rainbows out of the season’s first frost.

It is colder inside the cottage than out. 

Martin had reignited the fire three times. Even the cinders of the Statement are no more. Jon had gathered Pearl from the nursery the next time she started keening for attention; now the newborn sleeps bundled in his arms. Jon, likewise, is bundled in Martin’s arms, and Martin holds to his family like the lifeline that they are. 

But still, there is a _distance_ to Martin’s gaze. A preternatural disconnection, empty and Lonely, exacerbated by the touch of something Beheld. 

In the swirling silence, with revelations and story still echoing in the cabin’s corners, Jon clears his throat. “Martin…?” 

The chin hooked over Jon’s shoulder twitches. Jon sucks down a breath. 

“Martin,” he says again, “I have an idea.

Let’s… let’s be monsters.” 

For the first time in hours, Martin looks away from the fire. Bemused. Prompting. 

Encouraged by this, Jon continues, “You and me. Pearl, too. Let’s— the three of us, let’s be monsters: committed, and weird, and misty, and covered in eyeballs.”

“Are you… are you proposing to me, Jon?” Martin scoffs, brow lifted. “With my own proposal?” 

“I am making _a_ proposal,” Jon corrects, flushing, but no less impassioned in the wake of wry confusion. “I’m also _trying_ to… to make a point. Like you said, Martin, let’s live and… and let’s be happy. We deserve to be happy, you know. We all deserve to be happy. So. Let’s find a way to be happy. Let’s _ensure_ that we are happy, however… however _monstrously_ we might need to behave in order to be so. Even if that means—”

“Murder,” Martin intones. Placid, certain. Jon flinches, but does not correct him; he is already correct. “Jonah Magnus needs to die.” 

There is no smoke coming from the fire’s remains. And yet, the room is full of smog, twirling as it thickens. Martin sighs, and further wisps spiral from between his lips. “He almost— if _you_ had been the one to read that Statement, Jon… Christ, I can’t even think about it. It’s enough to make me wish that I’d… that I’d done what Peter asked. If I had, then—” 

“Then we wouldn’t be here,” Jon interrupts, scowling. “ _She_ wouldn’t be here.” 

Cradled against Jon’s chest, Pearl snuffles, dreaming her unknowable dreams. Martin watches her impossibly tiny fingers twitch, and his heart swells and swells and _aches_ until he is sure that it will burst. Until he can actively feel it breaking inside of his breast. 

Swallowing almost has him gagging on the guilt. “I don’t… I don’t regret that,” Martin insists. “Of _course_ I don’t. Never. _Never_. But I— I do regret… my own compassion, I guess?” he tries to explain, hiding once more in the heat of Jon’s nape. “Not… not all of it. But. Definitely what compassion I showed to Elias. To _Magnus_. You know? Twice I had a chance to kill him, and twice I… I don’t want to say ‘chickened out,’ but… ‘made the wrong choice,’ I suppose.” 

Jon’s hum is soft. Resonant. Understanding. 

“Well,” he murmurs after a moment, twisting to face Martin as daybreak’s cobalt light alchemizes into gold, “Third time’s the charm?” 

It is a joke. Or it is meant to be. It isn’t funny, of course— not really. But Martin smiles all the same: soft as foam, dark as the sea. 

“Yes,” he agrees, with fathoms to his voice. “Yes, I rather think it will be.”

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Then Martin punches Elias so hard in the face that Magnus dies, Martin and Jon kiss, and the Blackwood-Sims family lives happily ever after. Take notes, Jonny.


End file.
